Through the Mirror
by T0theM00N
Summary: AU Where Christine discovers a passageway behind her dressing room mirror and consequently meets Erik. Very Leroux
1. Chapter 1

The dressing room was a little bare, holding only two chairs, a bed, and a vanity, all of which were covered in gloomy white sheets. One whole wall to the right of the door was covered in a sheet as well, although Christine couldn't guess as to why. The floorboards were gray with a thick layer of dust, and when she set down her bag, a small plume of dust burst into the air and then settled quietly on top of her shoes. She hardly wanted to move, fearing if she brushed even slightly against any surface that the dust might cling to the edges of her skirt and attract the cold, judgemental eyes of the ballet girls. Christine imagined herself covered in patches of dirt, very out of place in such a beautiful building. At least it was an isolated hall. There were no other dressing rooms in this part of the opera house, and Christine was far away from any ballet girls that might whisper about the state of her dress. She stepped further into the room.

There were no windows, and Christine already missed the natural light found in the busier areas of the opera house. She swept her fingers along the wall, pulling down cobwebs and rolling the dust into dust bunnies. She clapped her hands to shake it off. For a moment, she closed her eyes and breathed. This was her home, for the time being. She imagined Mama waiting for her back at the house, the windows open and the clean, sheer curtains fluttering. There was no breeze here, but it was cold. Christine supposed she would have to get used to it.

Christine rolled up her sleeves. She gripped the edges of a white sheet and pulled it briskly off the vanity. She rolled it up and dropped it, then moved onto the next sheet and repeated the process. Finally she came to the sheet pinned to the wall. It was a different color than the other sheets. This one was a dingy, dark color, and of a thicker material. Christine gripped it at the bottom, pondered the feel of it against her fingers, then pulled it taut and ripped. She heard the pins pop out of place at the top of the sheet. One by one, the pins came loose, and the curtain came down in sections. Halfway through, Christine readjusted her grip and began again. A few more pins popped. They clattered on the floor and rolled to her feet. The rest of the sheet fell and swung from Christine's hands. She did not roll it up.

Behind the curtain was a clouded mirror the length and height of the entire wall. Christine felt almost personally offended that such a beautiful mirror had been allowed to fall into such disrepair. She tugged her sleeve over her hand and used it to wipe the mirror's surface. It smudged the mirror more than it cleared it. Her own reflection was nearly disfigured in the muddy mirror. Christine observed it for quite a while.

"I think it's cozy," Came a voice.

Christine jumped and dropped the sheet. In the doorway was a bony young woman with dark skin. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, but she did not smile.

"Oh," Christine said. "Hello. Forgive me; I didn't see you standing there."

"I scared you, didn't I?" The girl said. Christine noticed she was wearing ballet slippers.

"A little. My name is Christine Daae."

"I know. I saw you come in. The whole troupe saw you."

"Yes, I suppose they did."

"It'll eat you up," the girl said. "If you let it."

"I'm sorry; I don't think I understand exactly what you mean."

The girl leaned in with a hushed whisper. "The opera house. It lives and breathes like anything else. You're frightened of the ballet girls. But it isn't us you ought to be afraid of."

Christine frowned. "You are being rather frightening."

The girl laughed. "Don't be frightened. My name is Meg."

Christine smiled at her uncertainly and shook her hand. "It's a pleasure, Meg. I hope your room is nearby."

"Oh, it isn't. You're very alone out here, Christine." Meg glanced at the long mirror on the wall. "But I wonder…"

"Wonder?"

"Oh nothing." Meg turned and floated toward the door.

"But what were you wondering?" Christine asked. She looked at the mirror as if she might see what Meg had seen. "Meg, what did you wonder?"

Meg stopped in the door and turned her eyes toward Christine. "I wonder," she said, "If we really are alone."

They each stood for a moment, thinking. Then Meg smiled, stepped outside, and closed the door.

Christine rubbed her ear thoughtfully. She faced the long mirror on the wall and peered more closely at her muddy reflection.

What a strange girl. Christine was beginning to feel less and less at home. There had been an undeniable unfriendly air when she first met the other members of the chorus and ballet, and the cold, dirty quarters had not been any more welcoming. Christine had hoped she might make some friends, but meeting Meg had put that idea far out of her head. She'd never been filled with so much anxiety over things she couldn't understand! What had she meant that the opera house lived? What had she been wondering? Her empty, far away eyes were chilling.

From the moment Christine had entered the opera house, it seemed to have been nothing but one bizarre experience after another, and she had only entered earlier this evening.

Christine shook her head. She took a long look at her reflection.

She went for her bag. She laid it on the bed and opened it. Item by item, she began to unpack. She did not let her mind wander. Cleaning was a good way to distract oneself. Daydreaming always lead Christine to dark places. So she concentrated on selecting an item and placing it about the room in its designated spot. She pulled out two dresses. They looked disturbingly cheery against the dreary backdrop of the dressing room, and she quickly tucked them away in the closet.

Returning to her work, she reached into the bag and tried to pull out a scarf. It was caught on something and she yanked on the end. The scarf came out, but it pulled a small purse with it. The purse fell hard on the floor and spew coins in every direction. They rolled loudly on the floorboards, and Christine immediately dropped to scoop them all up. She counted them out as she replaced them. One short.

Christine squinted around her. Her glasses were folded up neatly in a side pocket of the bag. She didn't like to wear them in public, but she quickly put them on and looked about.

Resting on its side, the coin was lying just by the wall with the mirror. Christine stood and, bringing the purse, walked to where it lay. She stooped to pick it up and paused.

Was that a breeze? She ran her hand along the bottom of the mirror where the coin was. Cold air was being sucked in where the mirror met the floor.

Christine looked at the door. Still closed. She ran her hands along the edges of the mirror. Was there some kind of hole behind it? Perhaps it was another room. After a few minutes of searching, her fingers slipped into a crevice she hadn't noticed-a little dip behind the mirror. She gripped it, adjusted her footing, and pulled. It did not budge.

Suddenly Christine remembered something unbidden from her childhood: an attic door with a rusted bolt. She remembered trying to force her small fingers to slide the mechanism and never succeeding. She remembered every ounce of frustration that she had long forgotten. She wanted to open that door.

Christine pulled on the mirror again and, to her surprise, it rocked as if it were on some kind of track. She pulled again. A section of the mirror slide back, but not with ease. She pushed on it, rocked it, wiggled it, and the mirror slid back even further to reveal a crack.

Where Christine had assumed there should be a wall, there was nothing but black space and a rush of cold air. She stepped back. The crack was barely wide enough to stick her arm through, and already Christine's hands hurt from wrestling with the mirror. Her curiosity appeased, she suddenly felt a rush of anxiety.

Christine knew that no matter what she discovered behind the mirror, she would not be able to sleep easily in the dressing room. She almost wanted to shut the mirror again. She wished she had never opened it.

The cold air from behind the mirror made a slight whistling against the mirror's edge. It fluttered Christine's skirt. Christine stretched out the muscles in her shoulders and resumed her position at the mirror. She began pushing.


	2. Chapter 2

It was open. Christine's palms bore identical indentations where the mirror's edge had cut into her skin. Her hips and arms ached from pushing and pulling the mirror in its track. As it turned out, the mirror wasn't a mirror at all. It was a door.

Behind the mirror-or the door-was, as far as she could tell, an abyss. The first steps to staircase were clearly visible, but they quickly disappeared into the dark below. She could see no walls from her place at the top step, and the breeze she had first discovered at the bottom of her mirror was transformed into a harsh wind. The wind beat at her skirts, and for the first few moments, Christine felt forced to gather them up in one hand and hold them around her knees lest they fly up indecently.

There was something to be addressed. Christine was quite literally on the precipice. Below was something quite unknown. Perhaps it was an unfinished or abandoned section of the opera house. Christine had heard rumors that certain sections had been abandoned during construction due to loss of finances. Suppose the staircase dropped off into oblivion? Suppose Christine explored it and fell over the edge?

It was quite a risk. But as it were, Christine had opened a door she could not close. And already, she dreaded trying to sleep with the gaping abyss watching her from behind the mirror. Christine went to her bag and found a shawl, then took a lamp that she had sitting on the vanity. Turning sideways, she slipped through the crack and into the abyss.

By the light of the lamp, it was apparent that there were walls, and that they were very narrow. Christine laid her free hand on one wall. It was made of rough stone and wet. Steps were revealed one by one as Christine descended. She kept her hand on the wall as she went, and cried out when something ran across her fingers. She yanked her hand away and shone the light on the stone. Water was running down the wall in some places, and she followed it to where it was dropping on the steps. She would have to watch her footing if she didn't want to slip.

Slowly but surely, she made her way. The stairway seemed to be never ending, and after a while, the rough texture of the stone stairway began to stab at Christine's feet through her shoes. The walk was so long, she began to wonder what the time was. She worried she might be too exhausted tomorrow and that her performance might suffer.

So far it was turning out to be a very boring trip. There was nothing much of interest except the dripping water, and she had long since become used to the staircase. It was all very unusual to have a secret passage behind one's mirror, but perhaps it really was just an abandoned section of the opera. No secret here. Christine began to wonder if she should turn back.

Then a sharp turn brought Christine out of her thoughts. The steps no longer led downward, but the passage split into two separate passages. Christine shone her lamp to the left. There were no stairs in that direction, only a flat corridor for as far as she could see. She shone her lamp to the right. There were steps in this direction, but they led upward instead of down.

Christine thought. Surely if the stairs to the right led upward, then it must be a passage that leads back to the opera house. But what could the corridor lead to? As Christine viewed it, her options were this: open the attic door, or go back down the attic steps. That same emotion that led her to open the mirror to begin with reared its head again. Christine chose the corridor.

She wondered briefly if she would become lost. Who knew how many turns she might come across on this new path? Christine set down her lamp and removed her shawl. She fumbled with it for a few moments, running her hands over the fabric until she found a loose string. Then she began unravelling it. In a few moments, she had a length of thread longer than Christine was tall. She picked up her lamp and held the shawl in her teeth. As she walked, she used her free hand to pluck at the thread and cast it behind her.

Absently, the motion reminded her of a flower girl picking flowers out of her basket and throwing them to the floor. Christine smiled around the shawl.

The walk down the corridor was not nearly as long as it had been on the first set of stairs, and it was not long before Christine reached the second set. Of stairs, that is. Inwardly she groaned. Her thighs were aching as she started down the flight, plucking thread all the way, the weak light of the lamp guiding her down.

Halfway down the lamp went out. Christine hesitated. Perhaps she ought to go back. No. She kept going. Picking the thread was easier in the dark, to her surprise. The lamp having gone out, she had placed it gently on the ground and took the shawl out of her mouth. She flexed her jaw, which was sore from being clenched for so long. Then, with both hands at her disposal, the thread picking went much more smoothly. She went down the steps with ease. Vaguely, she scolded herself for not having thought about the climb back up. Climbing up the steps was going to be a whole lot more difficult than climbing down them.

But she was too far along now to go back up. She kept walking. Soon the staircase ended, and the passage came to a corridor again.

Christine became immediately aware of a light in the distance. She blinked and stuck her fingers under her glasses to rub her eyes. What was a light doing this far under the opera house? There was a small ledge that she stepped down from, and she immediately slipped.

Pain shot up her knees and elbows. Christine felt her dress catch and heard it tear. The corridor was all jagged rock. She had slipped in water. Christine scolded herself and slowly got to her feet. Not only that, but she had tangled herself up in her thread. She worked to gently unwrap herself.

Blindly, examined the shawl. There was very little left to unravel. She looked to the light in the distance and placed the shawl carefully on the corridor floor. She would go on.

There were no walls in this part of corridor, Christine soon realized. In fact, it wasn't a corridor at all. She spread her arms wide in both directions but found nothing solid to guide her. The stone floor was now nothing but sharp, uneven rock, and the musty smell of water stung Christine's nose. She remembered the seaside.

Suddenly, as Christine was carefully groping her way around a particularly large rock, her foot slipped and plunged into a pool of water. Christine gasped. The water soaked her socks and shoes. It was absolutely freezing. She scrambled back on top of the rock she had slipped off of.

Christine squinted into the dark. The light in the distance was closer now, and it illuminated the surface of what appeared to be a body of water, vast and dark. In the dark, the wet surfaces of rocks jutted out from the body of water and glinted at Christine.

 _A lake!_ Christine thought. _But under the opera house?_

She wondered how it came to be there. Perhaps it was some unfinished chamber that had simply flooded one day and never been emptied. Perhaps it had always been there.

But it didn't matter how it came to be, not really. Christine peered into the dark at that little light in the distance. It only mattered what was on the other side. But how could she get there?

It became apparent to Christine that, amongst the various sounds of dripping to which she had become accustomed, there was another sound she had not previously noticed. It was a lapping sound. Carefully, Christine groped in the dark, following the sound. She patted the rocks that stood in front of her. She did not wish to fall head first into the lake. It was cold, yes, but who knew how deep it was!

It was while she was patting the tops of the rocks that she found the source of the noise. Her hand came down gently on the surface of something smooth-not jagged. And it was dry, not wet. Christine smoothed her hand over it. It was made of wood!

In the dark, she made out the form of what seemed to be a simple rowboat. What a strange place this was turning out to be! Secret stairwells, underground lakes, little rowboats, and a light in the distance!

Immediately, Christine found her way inside. She tried to orient herself, but kept bumping into things and knocking her knees. At one point, she lifted an oar and sent something clattering on its side. She reached for it blindly and set it upright again on the bench across from her. Running her hands over it, she found it was made of metal and glass.

It was a lantern! Christine clapped her hands and fell to her knees at the bottom of the boat. She swept her hands over the boat floor. Matches, matches-where were the matches?

After a few minutes, her fingers grazed a little packet under the bench. She seized it and stuck her fingers inside. The little sticks rattled around inside. There were only a few left in the packet.

She lit one and held it up to the lantern. Quickly, she gave the lever on its side two turns to the left, but the match burned her finger and she dropped it. It went out at the bottom of the boat. Christine lit another match and lit the lantern.

It sprang to life, emitting such a beautiful ray of light that Christine could have sung a verse out of joy. She set aside the matches and gripped the lantern by the handle. It was heavier than she expected. It took both hands to lift. She swung it about the rowboat and found that there were two oars, but not much else. She shone the light over the side and gasped.

Deep scratches ran down the side of the boat, as if something with talons had tried to claw its way up onto the vessel. Christine looked out onto the water. Could there be creatures living there? As she set the lantern back down on the bench, she glimpsed something else of interest.

In the bottom of the boat, where Christine had searched for the matches, was a pair of muddy footprints. Dried mud was scraped all along the bottom. If no creatures dwelled at the bottom of the lake, surely some living thing dwelled at the bottom of the opera house.

Setting her eyes on the light on the other side of the lake, Christine took up the oars.


	3. Chapter 3

The trip was arduous, but thankfully, it did not last long. The oars were made of wood and rubbed against Christine's palms until blisters were biting her skin. The lantern cast a little light ahead of the boat, which illuminated the rocks just in time for Christine to see them before she knocked the boat against them. She took the trip slowly for fear of putting a hole in the hull and sinking halfway through the journey. The only sound was of the water lapping against the rowboat and of Christine's heavy breathing. Rowing the boat was so physically tasking.

And yet, the light in the distance seemed no closer. For minutes, Christine rowed with her eyes closed. It was her "watched pot" theory. Perhaps if she couldn't watch the light as she rowed, it would come closer. But every time Christine opened her eyes, it seemed no closer than it was before.

Perhaps this was some kind of illusion no one could understand. But eventually, while Christine was rowing with her eyes closed, her arms aching and weary, the boat slowed, and she heard a loud scraping noise from the bottom of the boat.

She opened her eyes and looked about. The boat was not rocking. In fact, it was completely still. Christine gripped the side and looked overboard. She had hit land.

Shakily, she stood up from the bench and put a foot on land. Immediately she was filled with a small sense of regret, as her shoes had nearly dried out since her last interaction with water, and she had just wet them again by placing them in a shallow pool. She took a few steps and shook out her feet. Remembering the lantern, she turned around and hefted it out of the boat, taking the matches with her. She took a look around.

To her astonishment, beneath her feet was a path of large, smooth stepping stones like one might see leading up to a house. She found a pole nearby and tied the rowboat to it before exploring any further. She started on the stepping stone pathway, which was on an incline. She quickly saw that the light that had seemed so far away from the other side of the lake was on a hill not ten feet away from where she stood.

Her legs felt like jelly, but she climbed up the path all the faster. That light was blinding, and she put a hand over her eyes to block it. Soon she came to the light. It was a wall mounted lantern attached to the side of a structure that she could not see clearly. It was attached high up on a wall, and Christine stepped underneath where it could not blind her. She looked out behind her and saw the entire lake from the little hill. She could even see the dark outline on the other shore of the corridor's opening where she had entered.

Christine turned to examine the structure in front of her. It was not very tall, but the walls ran long enough that Christine didn't bother with exploring the length of it. She was already exhausted. She couldn't imagine what kind of madman would have built this place.

When Christine examined it closer, she realized the light was fixed above a simple door with an ordinary knob. She reached out and tested the handle.

It was open.

Christine cast one long, last look over her shoulder. Then she turned the knob and opened the door.


	4. Chapter 4

The door opened into darkness, and Christine was immediately reminded of when she had first wrenched open the mirror in her dressing room. It was a second abyss and just as cold as the first. Christine stepped inside and waved the lantern about her.

Beneath her feet she found a rug. It was patterned, rather pretty. She stooped and ran her finger across it. Now that was odd. Not a speck of dust.

Somehow, Christine was reminded of the mud at the bottom of the rowboat. The door stood wide open behind her, and she imagined all sorts of creatures crawling out of the lake toward her, their long, sharp claws extended. She shuddered and closed it behind her. No thank you, lake-creatures.

She ventured further inside. Surely, there had to be some kind of light fixture. Christine scoffed at herself. How many miles underground had she travelled? The likelihood of any person keeping oil lamps or candles about in such a place seemed more and more preposterous.

And yet, hadn't she found the lantern? Was an oil lamp too far-fetched? Beyond the rug, Christine saw the vague shapes of chairs and tables, even a sofa. She followed the wall. Her fingers were dragging along its surface when they hit something cold.

She shone the lantern on it. It was a sconce! Two skinny candles were mounted in a pair on the wall, and Christine quickly lit them with the same match. It was her last one, and she cast the packet onto the floor.

With just that one extra light, the room was much brighter. Christine was quickly able to find the other sconces about the room. It wasn't long before the entire room was clearly visible in all of its colors and furnishings. Why, it was quite beautiful!

Christine put out her lantern and set it down. The room had a set of red and white furniture, and nearby was a group of chairs all gather round a little table. The table was cluttered with papers and coffee things, and it seemed that every table in the room was nearly identical, except for a few in the corner which were piled with books. In fact, some of the chairs as well were being used as bookshelves, and the books were piled into high, teetering towers.

The whole room had a mismatched, scattered feeling, as if it had all been cobbled together from found things. None of the knick-knacks matched each other. Some pieces of furniture were new, but the majority seemed to be apart of one big out-of-fashion set.

On the far wall of the room, across from the door, was a white fireplace, and it was desperately needed if the temperature were any indication. Two vases were placed on the mantle, but the flowers inside had long ago wilted and had shed all their petals onto the floor below. Trinkets cluttered the mantle as well and were in need of dusting. Where the typical fireplace would have displayed a pretty centerpiece, like a painting or a mirror, this fireplace displayed a large, square _something_ which had been covered up with a cloth.

Christine crossed the room to the fireplace. She blew some of the dust away and swept away the rest. Then she gripped the edge of the cloth and gently lifted it.

Underneath (to no one's surprise) was another mirror. It was in better condition than the one in Christine's dressing room, and she quickly determined that there was no secret hole behind this mirror. It was a small, hanging mirror, one that a more modest lady might have in her bedroom.

Christine examined herself. Her hair was wild from the journey, her face smudged with dirt and grime. She laughed at her reflection. She looked absolutely ridiculous. She raked her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it. Amused, she let her eyes slide slightly to the left, where she caught sight of something terrible.

Behind her, the door to the room was wide open. Christine whipped around just in time to a see a figure disappearing through the door in the house on the lake. Her heart pounded.

The front door creaked.

"Hello?" Christine called. She took a step closer. "Who are you?"

She felt a _crunch_ underfoot. Christine lifted her foot to see a shattered teacup. Whoever it was had upended a table in their hurry to leave. The tea things and papers were scattered everywhere. Christine righted the table and quickly started gathering the teacup shards.

She saw a movement in the corner of her and looked up, but there was no one at the door. Her heart was beginning to pound again.

"Would you show yourself?" She said. "You're frightening me."

There was a silent pause while she waited, and to her surprise, a thin hand appeared and gripped the door frame.

"I'm sorry," a low voice said. "I didn't mean to."

The voice sounded so uncertain and meek that it gave Christine more courage than she had before. She set the shards of glass onto the table and stood, wiping her hands on her skirt.

"What are you doing down here?" She asked. "Do you know where we are?"

The hand on the door frame flexed, and a pair of eyes appeared alongside it. They were yellow and wide.

"We're below the opera house," the voice replied. "What are you doing here?"

"I asked you that same question."

The eyes at the door narrowed and disappeared. There was a stony silence.

Christine fidgeted and rubbed her ear in thought. "Please won't you come inside?" She asked. "I'd be less nervous if I could see you. Where did you come from?"

"I came from across the lake," the voice said.

"In a boat?"

She was given no response, and Christine observed with a start that the hand at the door frame was dripping wet.

"You swam?" She cried. "You must be freezing!"

The voice did not reply.

Christine looked to the fireplace. "If you don't get warm, you'll catch your death," she said.

Again there was no reply.

Christine moved to the fireplace, where a stack of kindling stood. She started stacking it and rolled up a piece of paper from the table. She remembered the empty packet of matches and cursed herself.

She moved toward the door and asked, "Do you have a match?"

The voice made a startled noise, but the hand disappeared and reappeared holding a match in its fingers. Christine held out her hand. Reluctantly, the hand at the door soon became an entire arm which extended toward her. It deposited the match and then quickly retreated behind the door. Christine gave her guest a strange look.

"Thank you," she said. She lit the paper and tucked it in with the kindling. The fire soon licked into life, weak and sputtering. She rubbed her own hands together then looked to the door.

"Come in. You must be very cold."

"I can't come in."

"Why not?"

"Because-because I simply can't. I can't because you are looking."

Christine knit her brows together. "What if I promise to look away?"

There was a slight pause. "Would you close your eyes?" The voice asked.

"No, I don't think so. But I promise not to look."

The hand at the door readjusted its grip on the frame. "Okay," said the voice.

Christine turned to face the fireplace.

"Cover the mirror," the voice reminded her.

Christine replaced the cloth so that it covered the mirror. "There," she said. "It's covered."

Although her guest did not make a single sound, Christine was immediately aware that someone had entered the room. She felt very watched. Suddenly she was gripped with what a horrific situation she had entered. Here she was, miles below the Paris opera house in some strange, underground dwelling with a stranger she had yet to even see. She wished the voice would speak, if only so she could know how close he was.

"Don't look," he reminded.

"I won't."

Christine kept her eyes pinned to the cloth-covered mirror. It was then that she noticed that the edge of the cloth was folded back, and that a sliver of mirror peeked out from behind it. She felt suddenly very nervous. She kept her eyes pinned to the cloth.

She could feel the presence of the voice behind her. Her eyes strained in their sockets trying to see him. She looked at the cloth. Then, summoning her courage, she looked at the mirror.

In its reflection she could see herself, her posture rigid, her eyes wide, her face smudged, her hair still untamed. But it was what hovered over her shoulder that drew her eye. Behind her was the face of the devil. Its yellow eyes had pinprick pupils. It's jaw was open, as if it were yawning, exposing its crooked, discolored teeth. It had no lips. Instead, the skin was stretched back to expose red gums. It had no nose to speak of, but two long holes, and deep, terrible scars ran over the length of its face. Sparse, uncombed hair stuck up on top of its head in dark whisps.

Worse than all this was the wild look in its eyes. It opened its mouth and screamed. It was the face of the devil.

Christine let out a horrible scream herself. She turned around and fell against the mantle. Knick-knacks clattered to the floor around her, and she screamed again. Two giant hands reached for her and caught her by the arms. That horrible face pushed closer.

The last thing Christine was conscious of was a drop of water falling onto her cheek. She felt herself turning limp in the arms of the devil. Water splashed her face because the devil was crying.


	5. Chapter 5

When Christine woke up, she was pleased to find that the bed was very plush. The quilt was clean and fresh, not at all musty like she had expected. It had a fresh smell too, and Christine pressed her face into the bedclothes and breathed it in, hardly believing she was back in her dressing room.

In fact, she _couldn't_ believe it. Christine sat up. This was not her dressing room at all. It was a smaller room, with blue patterned wallpaper and a pretty white vanity and dresser. She pushed aside the quilt and found she was still wearing the dress from the day before, still filthy from her trip below ground. Her shoes had been deposited beside the bed.

So it had all been real. Christine felt suddenly sick. That face! She wondered if it could have been a trick of the light. Was that thing still here? Did it live here? Christine looked about. Was there no door out of this room?

Thoughts flurried through her mind, panicked and incomplete. She ran to the wall and placed her hands flat on its surface, then ran them up and down for some kind of handle or notch. Where was the door? _Where was the door?_

Suddenly, her finger dipped. She'd found a slight depression. Christine pressed it, and the panel swung open to reveal a short hallway. Her breathing slowed. She took the moment to reorient herself and to calm down. There was a noise, she noticed-or rather, music. It was the soft sound of a piano playing in another room.

Christine stepped out into the hall. The music was unbearably cheerful. As she approached the parlor, it was with a feeling of dread. Somehow the low tones of the piano, while lovely, had rendered a seemingly normal room into a terrifying one. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the pianist was no normal person, and that the room did not belong to a normal man. Shadows seemed to loom on the hallway walls, and the candles in the parlor ahead seemed to flicker.

She knew logically that if that _thing_ were in the parlor, that it must be at the piano. Who else could be playing a piano this far beneath the opera house? But apart of her feared that the face of that creature was waiting just around the corner for her, ready to scream that wordless, wild scream once again. Christine shuddered.

Had she ever been this frightened of a single thing in her whole life? She reached the end of the hallway. She could see the figure of the _thing_. It _was_ sitting at the piano, its back turned toward her, its face turned away. The keys of the piano were taking a beating, and the notes that they produced were harsh and loud, yet the tune was a lighthearted one. Christine looked at the door and tried to judge how easily she could escape. The creature was facing the door as well. Perhaps, she thought, it would not be able to slip out from behind the piano so quickly. She would have that advantage.

But even if she made it to the door, would she be able to outrun that creature to the boat? And even then, did not that creature swim across the lake only last night? Christine remembered the long scratches in the side of the rowboat. She wondered if this thing could swim faster than she could row. Did it have claws?

Careful to be quiet, she stepped a little closer and tried to see over its shoulder. It's hands had a pallor to them, and the fingers were thin and long. But there weren't any claws that she could see. Suddenly, the music stopped.

Christine backed away quickly, but she was too late. The creature turned stiffly to look at her, and she saw that its face was covered in a black mask that was partially translucent. Through the mask, she could just make out the bright yellow eyes and a flash of teeth, but nothing else. It had a ghostly look. Christine retreated back into the hallway. The creature followed her with his eyes.

"Good afternoon," it said.

Christine felt like she might faint again. "Good afternoon," she said.

"I hope you slept well."

"I...Yes. Thank you."

The creature watched her, but did not say another word. Christine felt that there was an expectation of her to enter the room, but she very much did not want to do it. She ventured back into the parlor, careful to give the piano a wide berth. The creature turned slowly on the piano bench to watch her do it. She went as far as the nearest sofa and collapsed into it. She felt weak all over.

"I expect you had a long journey to get here," the creature said. Its eyes were bright.

"...I did."

She did not follow up her comment, and they sat in silence for a moment.

"I have tea, if you would like some," it offered.

"Tea?"

"Yes. Would you like some?"

"You drink tea," Christine murmured. "Do you eat also?"

The creature turned its head a little. "Do I eat?" it asked.

Christine shook her head. "No, of course," she said. "Forgive me. Of course you eat."

The creature gave her a strange look and stood. "One moment, please," it said.

It disappeared through a door, and Christine tensed. Thinking it would be gone long enough for her to flee, she rose. But as soon as she had done it, the creature reappeared in the parlor with a tray of tea things in its hands. It came closer, and Christine sat down again, trembling. It placed the tray on the table in front of her and poured her a cup. Somehow she felt more disturbed by how politely it handed her the cup than she would have felt had the thing shown a little more blood lust. Its skeletal fingers made a sharp contrast with the pretty little porcelain set. With some hesitation, she took the cup, keeping an eye on the creature all the while.

"Thank you," she said.

It said nothing, but took its seat again at the piano bench and watched her. It had an underlying energy-no. An underlying excitement, like a child. Christine took a drink.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," it said rather abruptly.

"Christine Daae."

It nodded its head quickly up and down.

"Do you have a name?" Christine asked after a moment.

"My name is Erik," it said.

They fell into silence again. Christine looked down at her tea and gripped the cup a little tighter.

"Erik," she said.

She looked up and found she had the creature's full attention.

"Erik, what... _are_ you exactly? I mean, are you human?"

Erik fidgetted. "Yes, I should think so."

"Oh." Christine took another drink of her tea. "Do you mind if I ask you another question?"

"I don't mind."

"Is this your house?"

"Oh. Yes. Do you like it?"

Christine looked about. She felt compelled to fib. "Yes," she said. "It's very lovely. Very comfortable."

"I built it. While the opera house was under construction. I imagine you came down through the main hall, yes?"

Christine set her cup aside. "No. I came through my dressing room wall."

"Of course. No one's used that room in years...Would you like to see the house?"

"Oh-yes. Please."

They stood and Erik extended his hand in an awkward way. Every motion which seemed to come smoothly to Christine, she noticed, seemed to come in an awkward way to Erik. Simple things like how quickly one stood up and the ease of small talk. They had a way of coming off as unpolished, at least where this creature was concerned. Christine cautiously gave him her hand, but she immediately yanked it away.

"You're cold as ice!" she gasped.

Erik pulled away the offending limb and tucked it behind his back. "Forgive me," he said. "You've seen the parlor. We'll take a look in my room."

He started down the hall where the bedroom had been, his head bowed and his pace quick with an air of embarrassment. He stopped part of the way down the hall and looked back at her shyly. Christine followed him.

"Erik," she said. "I hope you don't live down here. I mean not really."

In front of her, Erik seemed to tense, and he asked in a small voice, "What do you mean?"

"I mean-it's very cold all the way down here. Don't you ever go above?"

"Yes, for the necessary things. Sometimes I..." He shook his head.

"What?"

"Sometimes, I go to the opera."

"Really?" Silently, Christine wondered if he attended the opera in a mask. "Music is beautiful," she said.

"It is."

"You played beautifully. On the piano."

"Thank you. Do you play?"

"Only tolerably. And I sing."

"Very well?"

"No," Christine laughed. "Only tolerably."

"I should like to hear you sing," Erik said. He stopped to look at her.

"Thank you. Perhaps you'll hear it if we meet again. Is this your room?"

Erik seemed surprised himself to find that they were standing in front of a plain wooden door near the end of the hallway. "Yes," he sputtered. "Did you mean what you said?"

"I'm sorry?"

"No, excuse me. Nevermind." He put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. "You might find this interesting. It is rather interesting, I think."

He pushed the door open gently. Christine still felt very nervous about her companion, but the meek way he stood aside gave her courage. She looked inside.


End file.
